


the forgotten dialect of the heart

by jaekyu



Category: IT (2017), IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: (I'm not joking they kiss a lot), Bisexual Richie Tozier, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Gay Eddie Kaspbrak, Getting Together, M/M, Making Out, Not A Fix-It, Not Canon Compliant, Pining, Recreational Drug Use, Teenagers, Temporary Amnesia, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-26
Updated: 2019-09-26
Packaged: 2020-10-28 19:53:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20784197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaekyu/pseuds/jaekyu
Summary: He loves Eddie so much it feels like a broken bone.He loves Eddie so much it feels like if, maybe, he sets it just right, it would click right into place and be just fine. But he’d have to break it again, first, it’s been stuck all wrong for so long. And maybe the pain just wouldn’t be worth it.*Some (but not all) of the ways Richie loved Eddie.





	the forgotten dialect of the heart

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the Jack Gilbert poem of the same name. Special shoutout to [Macaroni Song by Corey Kilganon](https://open.spotify.com/track/7mE8MPVQRjvi6T2F0lDYkL?si=tgqq0WzSTquok9NEG7thLg) because I listened to it for like, three hours straight while I wrote this.
> 
> So, just as a warning: a lot of things in this fic allude to Richie having undiagnosed/untreated ADHD. He also kind of flirts with substance abuse because of it. I don't have ADHD but I drew from a lot of my own personal experiences with other mental illnesses when writing this. It's never explicitly stated but it's there. I'm really not trying to step on anyone's toes with this, though, so if you see something you don't like and feel comfortable enough to do so, please let me know. 
> 
> Also, mind the tags: this is 100% not a fix-it fic.

I would like to be the air  
that inhabits you for a moment  
only. I would like to be that unnoticed  
& that necessary.  
\- **MARGARET ATWOOD**

_But man, if he made the first move, that’d be the best thing ever._  
\- **[BILL HADER](https://www.nytimes.com/2019/09/06/movies/bill-hader-it-chapter-two.html)**

**KATE**: You used to love your birdwatching.  
**GEOFF**: I did, yes.  
**KATE**: It's funny how you forget the things in life that make you happy.  
\- _45 YEARS_

**0\. **

Richie thinks there is, in fact, a very clear difference between love, the loaded gun of that word and all the things that come with it, in all the decades of your life. 

Because he’s forty years old, now. That’s four whole decades. He’s an adult, and he’s loved all sorts of people in all sorts of different ways. 

Okay, maybe not all sorts of people. But this whole hypothesis doesn’t work quite as well if Richie tells you the truth; tells you that he’s loved not-quite the exact amount of people you can count on two hands. And that, most of those people, Richie did not love in the grandiose, sun-exploding, batting butterfly wings, heart thump-thump-thumping, definition of the word _Love_. 

But forget all of that. All that stuff doesn’t matter. Because Richie is trying to make a point, here, and the point is:

Some things change and some things stay exactly the same.

**1.**

It starts when Richie realizes he’d do anything to make Eddie smile.

Or, more specifically: it starts when Richie realizes that Eddie’s smile reminds him of the way the sun crests over the horizon in the morning, setting the sky ablaze in oranges and yellows. And Richie is hardly ever awake early enough to see the real thing, so Eddie is the closest he gets. 

Obviously, he’s not actually thinking of it that eloquently. Not at thirteen, anyway. Obviously all he knows is that, sometimes, Richie will tell a shitty fart joke, or dunk on some ugly kid who calls them losers — the bad way — and Eddie will laugh and show his teeth when he does. Obviously, Richie doesn’t really get why he likes it so much either. Just that everything about it is so bright it kind of makes Richie’s chest hurt. 

Richie is thirteen and he’s got a lot of feelings he doesn’t have a name for. When he’s older, he’ll think maybe that’s why he doesn’t write his own fucking jokes: words always have a habit of running away from him. The important ones, anyway. Which means he compensates with a lot of rattled off bullshit. 

But, for now, Richie avoids thinking about the things he doesn’t know because they scare him. Instead, he reminds himself of things he knows for sure: he loves his mom, he loves his dad. He loves when his mom makes spaghetti and when his dad talks to him like he’s a smart kid, not stupid like Richie knows some of his teachers think he is. He likes the colour orange, popcorn with butter and the way hot pavement feels under his bare feet.

And he likes the way Eddie looks when he smiles. Especially when he’s smiling and he’s looking at Richie.

**2.**

At fourteen, Richie’s a little more self-aware. 

He sort of understands love now. Like, the bone deep kind that makes you sad every time the person’s not around you. It’s different than the way he loves his parents. It’s — bigger.

More importantly, he sort of gets sex now. Sort of. He understands that love and sex are intrinsically linked but that either of them can exist without the other. He knows where babies come from, even if he got a C in Health. And he knows that kissing isn’t gross now, even though he used to think it was. He’s even kissed a few people: Bev, on a dare, and this girl from a different school. She had long brown hair and really soft hands, but her lips were sort of dry. She complained about Richie’s glasses digging into her cheeks and forehead and then told Richie he wasn’t allowed to tell anyone she liked him.

She barely liked him, anyway. At least that’s what Richie figured. She didn’t talk to him again. 

Richie has never kissed Eddie. 

He thinks about kissing Eddie a lot. 

He feels caught somewhere between worried and not worried about it. Worried, maybe, because it’s the only thought Richie’s ever had that has put fire into his veins. Not worried, maybe, because it’s Eddie. Eddie’s his best friend. Nothing’s Richie ever felt about Eddie has felt wrong, or bad. 

Maybe scary. Yeah. Not wrong, or bad, or not good, or out of order. But, maybe, maybe scary. Just sometimes. 

Maybe scary but only sometimes.

It’s Friday. Richie’s dad is reading the newspaper and his mom is making dinner. Outside, it’s pouring rain.

It’s one of those mid-springtime thunderstorms that happen at the apex between cold weather and warm weather. Richie doesn’t like thunderstorms. His mom thinks he’s afraid of them but he isn’t, not really. It’s less that he’s afraid of them and more that they make him stir-crazy.

Richie watches the rain fall in big, fat droplets against the window in the kitchen. Listens to the pitter-patter, pitter-patter and matches the rhythm with his foot against the kitchen floor. Sometimes it rains so hard in Derry the bridge floods over. Richie thinks about that story for kids about the chicken who thought the sky was falling. 

The knock on the door almost makes Richie’s skeleton jump out of his skin.

“Richie,” his mom hums, mouth pressed into a straight line. “Will you go see who that is? At this hour, honestly.”

“If it’s one of your friends,” his dad calls from the living room, “tell them you’re about to eat and you’ll come find them after.”

Eddie looks skinny enough to be snapped in half with all his soaked clothes clinging to his body like a second skin. He looks cold, too. His arms are folded across his chest for warmth, exposed skin covered in goosebumps, teeth clenched to keep them for chattering. 

“Richie,” Eddie says his name instead of hello. His voice is tight. His eyes are red-rimmed and as soaked in water as the rest of him. “Listen - listen, I - I had a fight with my mom and I just _left_ and I, I don’t think I can go back - and -”

Richie curves a hand around Eddie’s arm, gentle but insistent, and pulls him inside before Eddie wastes any more time outside trying to finish his sentence. 

Richie talks to his mom in the kitchen while Eddie stands in the entrance. Then his mom talks to his dad in the living room while Richie finds Eddie a towel.

They tell Richie that Eddie can spend the night. They don’t even get angry with Eddie for dripping rain water all over the carpet in the entrance. Richie’s mom makes Eddie a giant fucking plate of spaghetti and Eddie eats less than half, but then he slides his plate over to Richie and Richie finishes it for him, so it’s okay. They watch TV for a bit before bed. Richie tries to get Eddie to laugh but it’s really, really hard. 

When Richie comes downstairs to hug his parents good night after he’s lent Eddie a pair of his pajamas and they’ve brushed their teeth, his mom frowns. “Is Eddie doing okay, sweetie?” She asks Richie. Richie shrugs. “Just,” Richie’s mom sighs, and from his side of the couch Richie’s dad touches her hand. “Make sure he’s feeling okay, alright? You’re a good friend to him. Be a good friend to him.”

Upstairs, they share Richie’s bed. It’s dark and it’s still raining. Every so often, the suddenness of lightning slices through the room, like a knife through butter. Eddie’s laying on his back, staring up at Richie’s ceiling. He’s barely said a word all night. 

Richie turns his head to look at him.

“Eds?” He asks, quiet. Richie’s parents wouldn’t be angry if they heard them talking but the whole moment feels like glass about to break. Richie's afraid if he's too loud he might shatter something.

Silence pulls itself thin between them. For a second, Richie thinks Eddie won’t say anything. Then, in the same quiet timbre Richie used, Eddie says, “yeah?”

“Are you okay?” Richie asks because his mom said he should. His mom is smart and she knows things. She probably knows a lot of things that Richie doesn’t even think about, or go right over his head. Eddie shrugs. “What did you fight with your mom about?”

Eddie’s gaze falls from the ceiling to meet Richie’s own. He doesn’t look surprised. Richie doesn’t usually ask these kind of questions but Eddie doesn’t look surprised. 

The silence between them goes taut again. A string about to snap.

And here’s the thing: Richie doesn’t ask these questions and it’s not because he doesn’t care. It’s because he cares so much and he’s afraid of what everyone else would do if they found out he did.

Eddie sighs. Lightning illuminates the room for one brief, untouched moment. Richie catches a glimpse of the open plains of Eddie’s face, and then as soon as the light is gone, everything seems so much darker than it was before. “I don’t think it really matters,” Eddie finally says. “And I kinda don’t wanna talk about it.”

“Okay.” 

“You know you’re my best friend, right?” 

It comes from nowhere. Richie swallows and prays Eddie can’t see how red he must be, with how hot all over he feels. Under the covers, Richie knows Eddie’s splayed open hand is resting right near his. Palm up, superficially warm but colder beneath it, still chilled from being soaked but from something else, too. When Richie’s finger reaches and touches the curve of Eddie’s thumb, neither of them say anything. 

It’s almost like this way — under the press of Richie’s sheets, in the dark, with the whole room quiet except for the rain outside — they can pretend nothing’s happening. Richie can pretend his fingers don’t feel weighed down. They can pretend he doesn’t slide them across Eddie’s open palm, regardless, and that their fingers don’t slot together with ease after he does. 

It’s almost like this way, it doesn’t matter when Eddie squeezes Richie’s hand. And it doesn’t matter when Richie squeezes back.

“Yeah,” Richie says. “I know, Eds.”

But it does matter.

It does.

**3.**

Beer is the worst thing Richie’s ever tasted but he likes drinking it anyway.

Richie is sixteen and it’s summer. He drinks, now, and sometimes when he’s been drinking he’ll take a cigarette if Bev offers him one. He likes horror movies, bonfires that go past midnight, The Clash and slamming his door after his parents yell at him. 

He loves Eddie so much it feels like a broken bone. 

He loves Eddie so much it feels like if, maybe, he sets it just right, it would click right into place and be just fine. But he’d have to break it again, first, it’s been stuck all wrong for so long. 

And maybe the pain just wouldn’t be worth it. 

Richie is sixteen and he is drunk and this house party fucking sucks.

There’s four of them on a couch definitely not meant for four people. Richie next to Mike who’s next to Stan who’s next to Bill. Richie’s is the drunkest out of all of them.

(Sometimes Eddie tells him he drinks too much. And it’s not that Richie doesn’t listen to him, it’s just that, sometimes, drinking makes it easier to listen to everything in general.)

“Where’s Eddie?” Richie asks everyone but no one in particular. He pouts. “I miss Eddie.” 

Stan always get this unimpressed look on his face when Richie acts like this. He’s wearing it right now. 

“I think he went to the bathroom,” Mike is the one who replies. Mike gets really mellow when he drinks. Likes to sit back and observe. Richie sometimes worries about all the things Mike has probably seen when Richie thought he wasn’t looking. 

"Why didn't he tell me?" Richie whines.

A voice comes from nowhere. “Pretty sure I did.” 

Richie looks up and finds Eddie above him, standing in front of where Richie sits on the couch. His arms are crossed, one eyebrow quirked. Eddie’s all pink, flushed from how hot it is in this house full of people. Richie can see it paint Eddie’s chest, until it disappears down passed the two top buttons that are undone on Eddie’s shirt. God, he’s so fucking _cute_.

“Eddie Spaghetti,” Richie is smiling so wide. He must look like such a fucking dork. “Where’d you go? You’re not cheating on me, are you?” 

It’s a joke. They’re not together. Eddie could kiss anyone he wants and Richie wouldn’t be able to say anything about it. Doesn’t mean Richie really, really wishes he wouldn’t, though. 

“You caught me,” Eddie throws his hands up in mock guilt. Richie hugs Eddie by the waist, pulling him forward, pressing his chin against the soft flesh of Eddie’s tummy while he looks up at him. “You’re mom called and said it was an emergency.” 

“C’mere, you harlot.” Richie maneuvers Eddie so he ends up sitting in Richie’s lap. Richie’s arms are still wrapped around Eddie’s waist. Richie’s basically a full head taller than Eddie now, too, so it’s really easy for him to frame Eddie’s whole body with his own. 

Some asshole yells from across the room. “That’s pretty fucking gay, Tozier.” 

“It’d only be gay if we had our dicks out,” Richie shouts back. “And I usually only take it out for your mom and sister, dickwad.” 

Richie and Eddie have still never kissed.

Sometimes Richie thinks about how easy it would be. He knows Eddie has kissed boys before. Richie’s has only kissed girls but he’d start. He’d start kissing boys for Eddie. They should just do it. It would just be a natural progression. It’s not like they’re on a path parallel to the one where they kiss. Eddie sits in Richie’s lap. And, sometimes, they hold hands. Especially when the seven of them get together and watch movies into the early morning. They always pick spots right next to each other at lunch, or when they go get food at a diner, and press their legs together. They pick sleeping spots next to each other when they’re spending the night at someone else’s house. Sometimes they’ll fall asleep holding hands, and other times Richie will wake up with Eddie’s head on his shoulder, or Eddie’s face tucked into the curve of his neck. And then there’s the way Eddie looks at him sometimes. Like Richie hung the fucking moon in the sky for him. Richie doesn’t get it, really, because he’s never done anything close to that. He’s kind of annoying, and a loud mouth, and kind of stupid, even if his mom always tells him to not think that about himself. But Eddie still looks at him like that. 

It would be really easy for them to just kiss.

But — at the same time, things would be different if they did. Richie’s not sure if it would be good, or bad, but he does know it would be _different_. 

Richie has always been afraid of the things he doesn’t know.

**4.**

When Richie is seventeen Bev moves away and he starts smoking weed. 

It’s not a big deal. He knows his parents would be really mad if they ever found out but he likes it better than drinking. Getting high makes everything real quiet, turns all the blood rushing through Richie into something that sounds more like the soothing pull and push of the ocean tide.

Eddie doesn’t smoke. Says he’s too worried about what’ll do to his lungs. 

Richie also gets a car when he’s seventeen. His dad buys it for him. “Because he feels bad about how much him and my mom have been fighting lately.” Eddie always frowns when Richie makes that joke. He always tells Richie that he hates it when he says it like that. 

It’s not a brand new car. Richie’s dad bought it from their neighbour who didn’t need the second car after his kids moved out. So it’s used, but it runs just fine and it means Richie can bug his friends for gas money after he shuttles them all around. And it makes Derry a little more bearable for all of them. 

Especially with Bev gone. 

Summer passes in a haze of heat and humidity. They drive out to this lake just on the edge of Derry a lot, to drink and get high, because no one else ever really goes there. 

Richie’s on his back on the grass, looking up at the stars. He finished his joint about an hour ago and now he’s just letting the high creep through him, from skin to blood to bones to nerves, until he feels sober enough to drive again. Eddie sits next to him, knees pulled up to his chest, picking at blades of grass. Above them there’s no moon, but the stars look so bright. 

Richie knocks his knee against Eddie’s foot. Somewhere farther away from them, Richie can hear Bill, Stan and Mike argue about _Army of Darkness_.

“Spaghetti Boy,” Richie says. He knocks his knee against Eddie’s foot again — but this time he leaves it there. Eddie’s worn pair of sneakers are rough against Richie’s bare leg. Eddie makes a noise of acknowledgement and Richie continues. “Penny for your thoughts, governor?” He asks in his stupid fucking english accent.

Eddie crosses his arms over his knees and leans his head down on them, tilting it so he can look at Richie. He looks pale bathed in only the starlight. It makes his hair look darker, though. Almost as black as the darkness around them. 

Eddie takes a long time to say anything. Richie lets him. They’ve gotten good at this, used to it; letting moments breathe in and out around them. 

Finally, Eddie says, “why were you mad at me last week?” 

(For context: Richie did not speak to Eddie for four days last week.

On Sunday, they went to the movies. Eddie showed up late. When he got there he had this big, bright purple bruise on his collarbone. Right in the centre there were these two little marks, from where the press of teeth sunk down just a little too hard.

Stan had said, “who’s the lucky guy?” and his eyes flicked to Richie. Everyone knew it wasn’t him. Because the bruise was new, brand new, and Richie had showed up to the movies on time. Eddie had blushed a deep red and pulled the neck of his shirt up higher. 

In the theatre, Eddie left the seat right beside him open for Richie. Only Richie shuffled right by without even looking at it and sat down at the other end of their group, next to Mike. And then he didn’t talk to Eddie for four days.

Because he was angry. And then he was even angrier at himself for being angry in the first place.) 

“I -” Richie stutters. He scrambles up from the ground so he’s sitting proper next to Eddie. Both of their legs are pressed together now. “I mean — does it really matter? It’s over now. I don’t think it matters.” 

Eddie’s face is folded all fucking sad. Brow and mouth and eyes. Eddie looks like Richie just said the worst thing he could have. But Eddie says, “okay,” and then he says, “you know you’re my best friend, right?” 

Richie reaches for Eddie’s hand in the dark. He finds it hidden in the sleeve of his sweater, tugs it out, and fits every one of his fingers snuggly between each one of Eddie’s. 

“I know.” 

Richie drops Eddie off last. 

It means he has to double-back after dropping off Stan, and he’ll probably miss curfew, but he drops Eddie off last. Richie parks down the street from Eddie’s house. Mrs. K thinks Richie is an awful driver and she’ll rant at Eddie for twenty minutes if she sees him get out of the passenger seat of Richie’s car. 

“Richie,” Eddie says his name as soon as Richie cuts the engine. 

“What’s up, Eds?” Richie asks.

This is how Eddie answers: he leans over the space between them and presses his mouth against Richie’s mouth.

Richie can’t believe he waited so long to do this that Eddie had to do it himself.

And then, all at once, he doesn’t care. Because he’s seventeen and still kind of high and he loves Eddie Kaspbrak. Probably has his whole miserable life. And Eddie is finally kissing him. That same deep, white hot heat erupts in his veins like it did when he was a kid and didn’t have a name for it. Now, it sings it’s name with Richie’s lips against Eddie’s. _Want, want, want. Please, please, please. _

Love, love, love. 

“Okay, okay, wait —” Richie barely pulls away from Eddie. Just far enough to see Eddie’s face; the pink flush high on his cheeks, the red of his mouth. The way Eddie is looking at Richie, through half-lidded and frenzied eyes. God, have Eddie’s eyelashes always been that pretty? “I have a question.”

“Okay.” Eddie worries his bottom lip between his teeth. It’s okay. Richie’s going to kiss him again in a second.

“Stop me if I’m way off base, okay? But — but _this_,” Richie pushes his thumb against the sharp jut of Eddie’s collarbone. Pushes against the spot where he had the bruise and the teeth marks a week ago. “Was this to make me — were you trying to make me jealous?” 

“Yes,” Eddie doesn’t hesitate. “_Yes_, you numbskull, it was to make you jealous. And it worked too well, I guess, because then you didn’t talk to me for a week.” 

“Four days,” Richie corrects. “I didn’t talk to you for four days.” 

“Whatever.” Eddie rolls his eyes. Then, he says, “I just. I just felt like I was waiting forever for you to do something. Anything. I was waiting and waiting and waiting and I was finally tired of fucking waiting, Richie.” 

It’s so sincere and open and broken and _aching_. This is four years of everything and nothing at the same time and what it does to you. This is the pot on the stove boiling over. This is the bathtub filling up passed the rim and spilling onto the floor. Richie kisses Eddie again and this time Eddie reaches up to thread his fingers in Richie’s hair.

“I’m sorry,” Richie says, breathes out desperate between kisses. “I’m sorry I made you wait so long. I didn’t, I didn’t know how, I didn’t know when, I didn’t. I didn’t. I’m sorry I didn’t.” 

Richie kind of feels like crying, he’s so overwhelmed. But Eddie moves his hands to cradle Richie’s face in both of them and holds him in place. Holds him down in the best way. The night is quiet around them but every time Richie closes his eyes he swears, somewhere off in the distance, someone is setting off fireworks.

“When’s your curfew?” Eddie asks.

“Uh,” Richie glances at his wrist. Remembers he doesn’t wear a watch, gently takes ahold of Eddie’s wrist so he can look at Eddie’s watch instead. “Twenty minutes ago.” 

“Richie!” Eddie’s pulling away, all of a sudden, and Richie scrambles to keep him close. “I don’t wanna get you in trouble.” 

“Cute,” Richie replies, instead of _I’d get into whatever trouble you wanted me to_. 

Eddie blushes. “Go home, Richie,” he orders. But he orders gently, and then he kisses Richie again, soft and warm. “I wanna — we can hang out tomorrow, though, right?” 

“Whatever you want, Eddie Spaghetti.” 

Richie falls asleep grinning at his ceiling, his veins still humming that familiar tune. A cacophony of four letter words and Eddie’s name. 

Once they start kissing, it’s hard for them to ever really stop. 

Hanging out tomorrow turns out to be, mostly, Eddie and Richie in Richie’s room. Door closed, Eddie laid out against Richie’s pillows and Richie hovering above him. Hardly a single breadth of space between them, kissing until Richie’s whole mouth and jaw is sore, and then kissing more. Richie puts a bruise back on the healed skin of Eddie’s collarbone. Only this time it’s better. Only this time it makes something warm fill up all the empty spaces between Richie’s ribs in his chest.

The next time they go to the lake with the guys, Richie smokes half his joint and convinces Eddie to slip away so they can make out in the backseat of Richie’s car. It’s kind of cramped and maybe the next time his friends complain about being squished Richie will be more sympathetic. But the cramped space means Eddie sits in Richie’s lap. Which he’s done a million times before, sure, but not with his legs on either side of Richie’s waist, their chests pressed together, their mouths all wet with each other. Richie sort of likes this version of Eddie sitting in his lap better.

Richie’s parents go out of town for the night and tell Richie he can have Eddie over. Richie kisses Eddie in all the places he wouldn’t kiss Eddie if his parents were home: up against the counter in the kitchen, on the couch in the living room in the hazy blue glow of the television, halfway up the stairs to Richie’s bedroom, in the bathroom with Eddie sitting on the counter and Richie standing between his open legs.

There’s an altar at the centre of Richie’s heart for Eddie and every day Richie keeps finding himself on his knees before it. 

Richie thinks about telling Eddie he loves him.

He decides it’s too soon. It’s not a good time to do it. Not yet.

**5.**

Okay, so, before when he was a kid and Richie said he kind of understood sex? That was a lie. Because now he’s eighteen and he doesn’t have a fucking clue about sex, at least not in practice. And definitely not when it’s sex that’s supposed to involve him and Eddie.

Richie is eighteen and Eddie is his boyfriend. Kind of. Mostly. 

To be more specific: Eddie’s smile pulls the sun out of the sky and fits it all warm and sparkling right into Richie’s chest. Eddie’s got this freckle on the curve of his ear that Richie is pretty sure only he knows about. Eddie can say one word and turn Richie from a sad sack of shit to something much more bearable. Eddie holds Richie’s hands. Eddie lets Richie touch his ass. Eddie lets Richie kiss him and, more importantly, he kisses Richie back. 

But, yeah, they haven’t had sex yet. 

There’s been two almost-there instances. 

Once, with Eddie spread out in Richie’s backseat and Richie above him. Richie was kissing along the fine curve of Eddie’s jaw and Eddie was making these breathy little noises with his hands gripping Richie’s shoulders and they just, sort of, rubbed off on each other. Richie guesses that’s the word for it. He knows for sure he came in his pants and, while Richie didn’t see it for himself, Eddie told Richie he did too. 

The second time, at least, someone actually had their dick out. It was Richie’s, specifically. They were at this party and Eddie drank a lot, more than he ever usually does, and Richie got cross-faded against his better judgement. Richie lost Eddie for about ten minutes, and then he had found Eddie sitting in the tub of the upstairs bathroom. Richie had crawled into it next to him, Eddie laughing while he watched him. There was this little mischievous little look in Eddie’s eye. The door was locked and they kissed in that bathtub for a long time. Eddie’s mouth was sour with alcohol but he tasted sweet to Richie anyway. Eventually, somehow, Eddie opened the button and the fly on Richie’s pants and took his dick out. Richie managed a quick _this makes it gay now that my dicks out, y’know?_ before all thought was lost to him while Eddie jerked him off. 

They just. Haven’t got there yet. Which is fine. Richie’s not worried about it.

He’s only eighteen and he’s not in any kind of rush.

If this was a movie, Richie thinks. If this was a romantic comedy, they’d end it here. They’d roll the credits over something like “Friday I’m In Love” by The Cure and everyone would think, wow, those crazy kids really did work it out, didn’t they? Good for them. Happily ever after and all that.

But this isn’t a movie. It isn’t a romantic comedy. And one of the trickiest things about life and love is one of those things goes on and on and the other —

Well. 

A second thing that has yet to happen:

Richie has not told Eddie he loves him.

Maybe that’s why he’s less preoccupied with the sex thing. Because the _I love you_ thing is a little more important. __

_ _Richie is eighteen and he likes David Lynch movies and Elvis Costello and the shitty burger and fries him and his friends get at least once a week. He loves his parents, even though it’s hard sometimes. And he definitely, _definitely_ loves Eddie Kaspbrak. The worst part about this whole thing is that it’s not hard to say because Richie is unsure. He’s never been more sure of anything. He loved Eddie before they even decided to be together. Before they kissed, or held hands. He’s been in love with Eddie since before he even knew what love was. Richie’s sure of it. _ _

_ _It’s hard to say for all the same reasons Richie never kissed Eddie first. Once he says it, things will be different. Good or bad, it doesn’t matter. Things won’t be the same. Things will be something else, something Richie doesn’t know. _ _

_ _Richie doesn’t think Eddie will save him from this one like he did when he kissed Richie first. _ _

_ _Richie doesn’t think he could keep this all inside of him long enough for Eddie to be able to save him, anyway. _ _

_ _

_ _

_ _There is one time where Richie gets very, very close._ _

_ _It’s at the end of a long night with his friends. It’s May and the weather is so nice. They go to the same diner they always do but, somehow, the food tastes the best it’s ever had. They laugh a lot. Someone mentions Bev, for what feels like the first time in forever, and they trade stories and laugh even harder. Under the table, Eddie’s foot rests just on top of Richie’s, a constant reassuring presence and eventually Richie lets his hand drift to a spot on Eddie’s leg, just above his knee. _ _

_ _Once they’re all alone in Richie’s car, Eddie just travels the distance between the passenger seat and the driver’s side and settles himself in Richie’s lap like he belongs there. _Because he does,_ his brain knocks the words against Richie’s skull the same way you’d knock on someone’s door and say, _hey, anybody home_? _ _

_ _No, Richie’s not home. Okay, yeah, he’s home but he’s not gonna answer the door. He’s busy. Eddie’s kissing him._ _

_ _Somehow Richie never gets used to the feeling of his gut gnawing at his heart that always comes around whenever Eddie’s got his mouth on Richie’s. No matter how long they spend doing it. Eddie touches Richie’s face with these soft, insistent hands and bears down against Richie’s mouth with soft, insistent kisses. Their hips slot together. The world might as well stop turning. Nothing could make Richie even consider anything that came before or may come after this moment. _ _

_ _“I -” the noise escapes Richie’s mouth when Eddie pulls away, for just a second, to breathe. _Love you_, his brain knocks against his skull again. Richie feels the words travel the length of his spine and spread to all his extremities. _ _

_ _Eddie looks at him, expectant. He’s pink all over, except for his mouth, which is bright red, and the hickey Richie left on his chest three days ago, which is starting to go that mix of purple and yellow. There’s a big, fat moon in the sky. It pours light in from Richie’s front windshield, illuminates the aura around Eddie like he’s a fucking angel, or something. Casts this halo of light like a crown on his head. Bathes him in light that makes this whole moment feel otherworldly in it’s beauty._ _

_ _“I -” Richie repeats, lamely. _ _

_ _The words caught in his throat are threatening to choke him. _ _

_ _“What is it?” Eddie asks. The light is caught in even his eyelashes, dropping moonlight between them every time Eddie blinks. _ _

_ _“I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn't kissed me that first time, Eds.”_ _

_ _It’s almost the truth, Richie rationalizes. Richie’s brain and heart tell him it’s not. Not even close. _What if you wake up tomorrow and you don’t love him and you never managed to tell him when you did?_ They ask._ _

_ __That’ll never happen_, Richie tells them. _ _

_ _So what if it’s not the whole truth? It makes Eddie blush and tuck his chin down against his chest, smiling. It makes Eddie curl his fingers into the collar of Richie’s shirt and tug him forward, the _c’mere_ he mumbles lost in the press of their open mouths. _ _

_ _That’ll never happen, Richie insists._ _

_ _It’s okay. It’s fine._ _

_ _He’ll tell him next time._ _

_ _

_ _

_ _Richie asks himself: _is there a way I can make us go on forever?__ _

_ _He never thinks of an answer._ _

_ _

_ _

_ _ **6.** _ _

_ _Eddie breaks up with Richie the same day Richie finds out his parents are getting a divorce._ _

_ _Richie thinks you call that irony._ _

_ _Richie’s dad is the one who tells him. His mom is at her sisters, Richie's aunt, so Richie's dad is the one who tells him. He says Richie's mom will talk to him later. He sits him in the big chair they have in the living room and says, _this isn’t your fault_ like it makes it any easier for Richie to swallow. The conversation has barely ended when the phone rings._ _

_ _“Richie,” It’s Eddie. “Richie, can I come over?”_ _

_ _“Okay,” Richie tries not to sound too sad. “Okay, yeah. Come over.”_ _

_ _All Richie wants is for Eddie to come over so he can hug him. Hug him and then maybe feel better and then maybe they’ll make macaroni and cheese and watch TV and Richie’s life will feel perfectly preserved as good as it was for just a second longer. _ _

_ _That’s not what happens._ _

_ _Eddie won’t even come inside._ _

_ _He makes Richie stand outside on the porch. It’s chilly out. Eddie’s wearing this orange sweater that makes him look like the cutest little pumpkin Richie’s ever seen. Eddie and Richie stand out on Richie’s porch, Eddie wearing his sweater and the saddest expression Richie’s ever seen and Eddie says, “I think we should break up.”_ _

_ __I love you_, Richie almost says. But he doesn’t. Because that wouldn’t be fair. Because that would be mean._ _

_ _“Not. Not forever. But, for now. I think we should break up for now.” Eddie explains. He got into NYU, after all, and he’s going. Richie didn’t get in anywhere. Richie didn’t even apply. _ _

_ _“Okay,” Richie relents. “Okay. Whatever you want.” Richie’s heart is trying to rip it’s way out of his chest and scream at the top of it’s lungs. _I love you, I love you, I love you_, it’s saying. _I love you, I love you, I love you,_ it is begging through tears for Richie to just say out loud._ _

_ _He thinks of when Eddie said to him, _I was waiting and waiting and waiting and I was finally tired of fucking waiting, Richie_. _ _

_ _“Whatever you want, Eddie Spaghetti.”_ _

_ _

_ _

_ _

_ _**null**._ _

_ _It’s hard to not like L.A._ _

_ _Or New York. Or Chicago, or Vegas, or Denver. Richie hasn’t really settled yet. He thinks maybe he never will. He remembers how he used to feel when a thunderstorm would shut him indoors and give him cabin fever, only now he feels that all the time._ _

_ _Regardless: it’s hard to not like L.A. more than Derry. _ _

_ _When people ask him where he’s from, Richie always tells the same joke. “Man, I don’t know,” Richie will say, usually over the lip of a glass, or the open mouth of a beer bottle, his hand strangling the neck of it. “I’m a dude in his late twenties so I’m kind of a from everywhere. Bit of a vagabond, y’know? I’m all about that transient lifestyle. Which, I think, is just how hipsters make being homeless sound better.”_ _

_ _After he says it, Richie will always feel sort of sad. Nostalgic for something that doesn’t exist. Trying to see something that was you only half-saw in the first place. He’s not sure why. Couldn’t even guess if he tried. But he does. _ _

_ _He feels sad every time._ _

_ _

_ _

_ _ **7.** _ _

_ _When Richie sees Eddie again — forty years old, an adult who's afraid of the same things he was when he was a kid — his heart feels trapped in a cage that acts more like a warm blanket and his chest hurts like a healed broken bone does just before it rains._ _

_ _Some things change and some things stay exactly the same._ _

_ _

_ _

_ _

_ _ _end._ _ _

**Author's Note:**

> working title for this fic was "For Eddie, Forever Ago" lmao


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